


I Really Wanted To Call This 'Toxic', But I Didn't, So Have This Crappy Title

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: AU, M/M, explicit content, wink wink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1618535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash and Tucker had their moments of clarity, it just took them some time and a phone call.</p><p>[Began as response to tumblr post. The epic story continues.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Share Your Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is 100% appreciated! comments are great. i will reply until you get bored.  
> 

Each morning, Washington had a set routine which rarely varied. Wake at 5am, short jog before breakfast, soak in the morning, followed by a black coffee and, on Thursdays, read the local newspaper. Wash isn’t adverse to technology, no, he just enjoys the routine and smell of paper left on the lawn.

His house is nothing extravagant, but it houses two cats he cares for and multiple pictures of the ones he’s rescued and found homes for. It’s important to remember these small moments, seemingly trivial to one’s lengthy existence and the world itself, but Wash likes to think he’ll leave his mark just like these felines did.

Normally, days go by relatively uninterrupted but for the advances of one Lavernius Tucker. He was easily the last acquaintance he’d imagined making, let alone close friend. Wash wouldn’t assume they were best friends – he left that for Church, who fought tooth and nail against even being called a _friend_ of Tucker’s. So he supposes he was in an altogether strange affair.

Wash will usually be doing something of an important nature, or sleeping (when Tucker will see 2am as the perfect time to talk) and he will find himself in a completely different situation from previously established.

It was such a moment now, disturbing his view of the sunrise and hot coffee as his phone played an annoying song Tucker had _evidently_ taken time to set. _Toxic,_ a Britney Spears classic Wash had no fondness for whatsoever, blared and he swiftly answered it before the tune became set in his ears.

“What are you doing up this early?” is Wash’s question to Tucker: his peculiar behaviour of waking early today alerted the blond.

“Dude, I am absolutely fucked right now.” He can hear the urgency in his friend’s tone, a slight tremble.

“Tucker, what’s going on?” Wash is beginning to worry, _was he in danger? Oh god no---_

“Okay – so, Donut is trying to hook me up, right, and he’s just---”

Wash stops understanding and much less worrying, interrupts Tucker. “What has this got to do with me?”

“Donut. _Donut_ of all people, trying to _hook me up._ I can do that on my own!”

“Okay,” Wash starts, attempting to find reason. “So, then, what’s the issue if you can do it on your own, what’s his deal?”

“Seriously? You haven’t put two and two together?” He’s beginning to sound exasperated.

“Well, just tell Donut to stop.” Yeah, Wash doesn’t have a clue.

“There’s like this event-thing for he and Doc’s anniversary. Trying to get me a _date._ He’s been suggesting people from Church to guys we meet at fucking Caboose’s art group.”

“Art group? Wasn’t he starting an apprenticeship?” Wash is just very confused.

“Set shit on fire,” Tucker offhandedly responds. “Look, whoever Donut sets me up with is _not_ going to be someone I want to be with.”

“So…?”

“Please fucking be my date so I can get him off my back. He’s texting me three times a day,” Tucker desperately begs.

Wash is taken aback by this. Possibly the last thing he expected last night, planning his route for this morning, was to be asked on a date by Lavernius Tucker himself. Despite the settings and circumstance, wherein it’s not genuine and Wash certainly won’t get a kiss goodnight, he doesn’t really mind.

He contemplated this within a few seconds. It’s just looking out for a friend, free food.

“We’re all adults here, so I suppose if it saves you the wrath of Donut – seriously, you’re _scared_ of him? – yeah, okay.”

“Oh, thank fuck. Next Saturday, you pick me up. 12pm. Semi-formal.”

“I suppose I am the responsible one. Give me the directions then, and be ready.”

“Can you like, ring me to wake me up?”

“I’ll probably have to. Do you do anything on your own?”

“I only do what I must, man. It’s my tagline for life.”

Donut passes by with his corgi the next Monday, knocks on Wash’s door late in the afternoon with an expectant expression.

“So, _you’re_ the lucky man that’s Tucker’s date. Well, I never thought I’d see the day come.” He winks on his way out. Wash detects something. There is no innocence behind his meaning. Wash heads to close the door as quickly as possible.

It was just a sample of what was to follow.

“Tucker!” Wash is there an hour early. He has no reason to justify himself, for the person he is waiting for gives enough.

“Shut the fuck up! It’s Donut’s fault!” Tucker is jumping across the room, fitting a sock on and trying to find his dress shirt – and failing, which is where Wash came in.

“Why do we have to go, anyway?” questions Wash, rummaging through the closet that had no order, no categorisation.

“Donut has his means. I’d never hear the end of it at work, either. It’s easier just to do what he fucking wants and get him to keep his bitching to himself.” He has two feet ready for shoes, and Wash has finally discovered the ‘seafoam-ish cyan something shirt, it might be in there, maybe’.

“Tucker, this is aqua. Why didn’t you just say aqua?” He attempts to avoid looking at the smooth skin on Tucker’s chest.

“It’s more than that. Kind of turquoise. But not fucking mint.” Tucker relaxes back onto his bed, all objectives complete.

“What are you doing? Get up! We have to leave as soon as possible!” At this stage, Wash is becoming increasingly aggravated.

“We go heaps of time, just drop it.”

“Fine.” He leant down to slip the sleeves over Tucker’s arms. Tucker didn’t even protest at being dressed. “This is not becoming a regular thing.”

“If you say so.” Tucker smirks. The man fixing his buttons together realises it probably will.

“We’re leaving now. You either get a ride with me, or I’ll invite Donut over to.” Tucker stands up at this, as Wash begins to pull out his phone. They hastily leave, fasten their seat belts, and Wash sincerely hopes there’s little to-do at the gathering. From the time Tucker wasted, they arrived punctually.

Donut greets them in his none-too-cordial manner, over the top with his usual flair. Doc is pleasant, speaking of ‘everybody together makes him want to weep.’ Wash wonders, absently, how he behaves with his patients. Church is pallid, grumbling about ‘keeping his shitty job’ and Caboose is annoying him with questions pertaining to the decorations.

He thinks they’re safe, as he watches the two hosts indulge themselves in affection and remain chattering to Caboose. Tucker nudges Wash on the shoulder, “Going to Kaikaina.”

Wash watched on as his ‘date’ went to talk up Grif’s sister, who was only in attendance for recently coming to town and making the friend of Doc. Wash considers her light-headed, and from the way she kept looking at him, he has to wonder as to what he’d done wrong. Until he overhears her loudly say to Tucker, “Why have you brought a fucking cop as your date?”

He grasps his forehead and makes a point to avoid her. Being considered a cop was maybe more preferable to Tucker’s fake date. At least it could be meaningful. In order to avoid conflict, and ensure not too much alcohol is consumed for an afternoon party, he lingers near beverages. There is no way, on his watch, he’ll be the only sober driver. He only has four seats and he will _not_ have vomiting guests ruining the leather covers. Tucker can be gifted a paper bag later.

Church saunters over beside Wash. “Fuckin’ Grif and Simmons. I have a headache, and all they want to do is argue. So fucking glad I rarely get shifts with them.”

“If you have a headache, then don’t drink,” Wash admonishes.

“If you have a stick up your ass, don’t date Tucker.”

“Oh, that was so low, Church. I’m hurt.” Wash has heard enough of Church’s sarcastic remarks over the few years they’ve known each other to understand his concern. “If it’s any of your business, I’m just here to cover for Tucker. Donut apparently wouldn’t let him hear the end of organising a date, or attending, so I stepped in.”

“Hah, right, keep telling yourself that, man,” is Church’s edgy response with his signature jarring laugh. He broke off the cap of the beer adjacent to Wash’s hand.

“What do you mean?”

“Dude, you trust Tucker? You have a lot to learn,” he continues as he walks back off to his table.

“You’re not making any sense, Leonard. Really, what’s the deal?” Wash checks the time; it’s only been an hour now, but he’s had his fill of Tucker’s friends. The worst thing now would be for Sarge to walk in – the war veteran who was a regular at the shop Donut managed alongside his begrudging guests here – and find his way over to Wash.

“Son, what are you doin’ near the ambrosia?”

“Sorry?” he looks up from his messages archive.

“Oh, ho, I know you’re probably occupied with your nice man. Dirty Blue.” Sarge only preferred the people on Red shift, and his grudge against the Blues was conveyed consistently.

“I don’t know what you mean, and I’m going to ignore you.” Wash was not looking at Tucker’s messages. “I said this before – this is just to keep Donut quiet. Uh, don’t mention that, by the way.”

“Sure, son. Keep believin’ that.”

“Why is everybody being so mysterious!?” He puffs out. Wash decided against speculating if Sarge knew how to time his appearances.

He caught eye contact with Tucker, who winked with a toothy grin, then abandoned his warm chair and came to offer his hand to Wash.

“We’re dancing, man. Gotta keep up _appearances,”_ he instructed, raising his thick black eyebrow. The overhead lights reflected off his ebony skin, illuminating his entire face and framing it.

(Wash may have spent a little bit too long analysing that, but he supposes he’s a bit poetic sometimes).

They proceeded to step in pace with a romantic song Donut and Doc had decided on. There was an aura in the room that suggested most people present did not agree with the choice.

It wasn’t a bad tune, if Wash were honest, if a little cheesy. He did have a penchant for enjoying these sorts of things; if Tucker knew, he’d never hear the end of it.

Tucker is a very personal man, and Wash assumes it’s all playing within the role. Really, he doesn’t mind. At least his date isn’t a bad dancer. Over Tucker’s shoulder, he spots Church with a smug expression, holding a hand out to Sarge. Two twenty dollar bills are passed over by the reluctant veteran, disgruntled. He has to wonder what the bet was for, exactly. Well, not until Church glances over to the inquisitive Wash with a bright grin, only ever plastered on his pasty skin when he is beyond proud of himself.

 _It’s only to keep Donut quiet,_ he reminds himself.

“Oh, thank you so much for coming, Tucker!” Donut gushes. “You too, Wash.” A wink is added.

It’s late afternoon now, only escaping after several more dances and a toast. There was also no free food, and Wash ended up paying for Tucker and himself. At least the social time was bearable; they weren’t so bad.

“He might say he’s _so glad_ we went,” Tucker grumbles as they located Wash’s car. “But he’d put me on evening shifts for a fucking month straight if I didn’t.”

“You also have leverage over him now,” Wash replies, unlocking the doors and settling in.

“Oh, and how’s that, Wash?” Tucker has his arms crossed.

“It’s an unspoken rule. Just say _you_ went to his party and put in extra time.”

“Mr. Workaholic, how’d you ever suggest such a thing?” Tucker watches Wash as he pulls out of the parking lot, checking the oncoming traffic and the sunset blanketing the hills.

“I’m not _that_ bad.” Tucker glares at him, silently arguing the point. “Okay, okay, well, most of the time.” Relentless glare. Wash sighs.

“Anyway,” he tries to salvage the conversation. “Hopefully Donut won’t pester you again. Knowing him, though, I’d just be careful from now on and find another way to prevent it.”

There’s a glint he notices in Tucker’s eye when they’re at a red light. He’s fidgeting in his seat, fiddling with the air-conditioning settings. Wash tries to stop him but his hand is quickly slapped away.

“I’ll see you around, Tucker,” Wash remarks beside Tucker on his front steps. There is now a slightly disappointed expression to the man before him.

“Yeah, whatever, Wash.” He expected a more polite goodbye, but then again, it’s Tucker. There’s low expectations associated with his friendship.

The two cats are quiet when he arrives home, but eagerly await their dinner. Wash smiles at them, sweetly speaking to them in cat-language.

It would have been a quiet evening – something Wash relishes in, the comfort of a Saturday evening. The enigma of Lavernius Tucker continued to evade his speculation. He wore his emotions on his sleeve, but there always seemed to be something behind his actions and words

It was what came along with Lavernius Tucker, though, and he supposes it’s worth it. He’s still trying to find the reason why – rather, a reason that he’s happy with.

Life was infinitely simpler before the Blood Gulch Crew came along, before he bumped into Tucker by chance. It’s a horrible thing when you begin to care.

His phone begins to ring during his regular television show (it was ritual, you see) and he almost debates just hanging up.

Donut begins, in his high-pitched tone. “How’d you like the party?”

“Very nice, Donut. I hope your next five years together is even better.”

“Oh, _sure_ ,” Donut says back, unconvinced. “You were more focused on Tucker.”

“Look,” Wash amends. “Tucker told me he needed a date to get you off his back. Are you happy now, or do I have to put it in writing for you?”

Silence reigns the conversation, Donut ingesting what Wash relayed back to him. “Is that what he told you?”

“What do you mean?” More mind games. Wash was tired, listening to Donut’s chirpy giggle was nerve-wracking. He scratched his head, wondering if the solar hot-water was powered up enough for a long shower.

“Tucker – Tucker told you _I_ forced _him_ into finding a date?” He proceeded to snigger, unsuppressed.

“Spit it out!”

“Tucker was complaining about not knowing how to get you to go with him on a date. I said my anniversary party to start with,” he finally clarifies. “But you _kind_ of blew his plan, Wash! Oh boy, you really blew him good.”

“Wait, what? Are you kidding me?” Today has been an adventure. His throat is developing the feeling of expectation; although, it could be an elaborate ruse of Donut’s. Which, when analysing the history of these, often fail spectacularly or the couple ends up married.

“Oh, Wash.” There’s an almost undetectable chuckle. “Nice guys finish last.”

He hangs up. The man always had a way of leaving Wash without just the last bit of information required.

In his relationship with Tucker, days and nights out together were never really classified as a ‘date’, much as they could appear so. Sometimes they’d grab takeaway, sit in and watch crappy late-night television talk shows, or Wash would drag Tucker to the gym because it’s _Sunday afternoon, Tucker, and you’ve done nothing all weekend._ Despite the inconvenience, Tucker ringing at 2am for help was never perturbing for Wash. He worried enough, as it is. Tangent thought did cross his mind – carrying Tucker to bed when his legs refused to move from the front seat, buying coffee together, candlelight dinners – perhaps something more?

Of course, Wash realises he just described a _platonic_ candlelight dinner for two.

So, maybe he should just finally admit it to himself.

(Well, he kind of already _had,_ a long time ago, and---

Wash isn’t very good at this. He doesn’t really do emotions).

“Tucker.” He picks up his phone again and speed-dials Tucker’s number.

“Yo, ‘sup?” he answers groggily, oblivious to Wash’s current storm within his mind.

“Dinner tomorrow together?”

“Yeah, pick me up.” His voice seems to be crackly.

“I’m not getting you dressed this time.” His shaking finger taps ‘cancel’ before there’s any protestation from either of them. Wash slams the phone on the table in front of him, the all but emptiness of the kitchen taunting him. He may be a little paranoid about being stood up, but that’s never happened before with Tucker. It’s with apprehension he considers Donut’s remarks, alongside Church’s and Sarge’s. His instinct reminds him it’s possibly a joke on him – a cruel one. The pranks had never really stopped.

Besides which, it was fairly established between the two of them that they were bickering, co-dependent friends. Wash tries to work the feeling that had decided to resurface down; it was particularly unlikely much would become of it. Wash doesn’t _do_ feelings.

Wash arrives right on the spot of 7:01pm. Tucker opens the door surprised, “Dude, this formal? Give me time to change, shit!” He scurries off, leaving an abashed David standing with keys in hand. His clothes weren’t of an official nature, he’d just settled for a button-up top and black slacks. His _date,_ however, was in cargo shorts and a t-shirt before he came back in a similar attire.

Tucker doesn’t suspect much. He’s one to assume they’re just up for dinner together. It’s a restaurant they sometimes visit, but only for when Wash had something meaningful happen to him. The man almost looks nervous at first – which he passes off as typical Wash wondering if his food is poisoned. Honestly, Lavernius pays little mind but for enjoying their conversation. (Maybe also the view is nice. He may have a preference for freckles, but Wash’s grey eyes left him a bit weak – alongside the chiselled nose and arched eyebrows. All right, a fair bit did make him weak about Wash).

The plan with Donut didn’t exactly go as planned, so he allowed himself to savour this time.

“Tucker,” Wash is trying to get his attention, his face reading unimpressed.

“Huh?” he looks back up. _Shit. Grey eyes. Abort, abort._

“You weren’t listening to me, I was _saying,”_ his voice trails off as Tucker tunes him out and just watches.

Yeah, the view _was_ pretty good. Especially when he had that look talking about… stuff. Stuff he really liked, yeah. Just a little glint in his eye and a few expressive movements and Tucker didn’t care. He was too busy looking.

“Tucker!” he exasperatedly says. “I asked you a question.”

“Oh, right, sure! Wait, I should probably say no to be safe.”

Wash sighs heavily and picks up a serviette to dab his mouth. “I asked you, are you ready to for me to drop you off?”

He grins in return –all right, _maybe_ slightly dreamily, but Tucker thinks it’s just the appeal of Wash. “Dude, aren’t we going back to your place?”

A look of contentment and relief floods across Wash’s face. “I’ll pay.”

They settle on their way outside, the wind pressing against their backs. The street lights flood the street, the pavement bright against the dark front yards of the houses they pass. Some of houses had awake occupants, loud televisions blaring.

Wash has his hands deep in his pockets, his back slightly arched, walking alongside Tucker. He has a casual strut, but crosses his arms as the temperature sets in after leaving the warmth of the restaurant. Every so often, Wash looks down and smiles almost goofily. That sort of look Tucker can’t resist returning.

With a brisk step, Wash eagerly unlocks the door, allowing Tucker through before closing the door.

Before Tucker can move away too quickly, Wash grabs his shoulders and slams him against the front of the door and feverishly kisses him. He’s pushed away by a slightly confused, but with a completely fucking pleased expression.

“Dude,” he says between the pants he didn’t notice had started. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me it was like _that?_ ”

“Oh, come on, it was so---” Wash gives up. “You rarely ever listen.”

“There’s stuff I listen to, like the beat of an angel’s heart.” He cracks a grin. “And I can hear one pounding right now.”

Wash groans in Tucker’s mouth, attempting to suffocate pick-up lines and attack his mouth. Two birds with one stone.

Tucker thinks he might like Donut’s get-togethers a whole lot more now.

“We’re not doing this against the door.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve always been fuckin’ fussy,” Tucker mutters as he drags the two to Wash’s room. It’s a path that’s familiar to him, despite the lack of sexual connotation until now.

“Are you okay?” Wash asks, allowing Tucker to saddle his lap.

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up,” he mumbles, pushing Wash down and marking his neck territorially. Just on the middle of his throat was, evident from the suppressed moan, a weak spot.

Once the dam was open, there wasn’t much stopping Wash trying to dominate Tucker. “Looks like I have to dress you as well as _un_ dress you.” He strips Tucker’s clothes off like he has sewn the garments, but allows himself to back off the bed and slowly undo his buttons (Tucker’s sure he’s a fucking tease).

Okay, that twist of the shirt and throw was _really_ unnecessary. So was the shimmy of the hips (yup, Tucker really is bad at watching Wash strip).

 _Oh god, he’s just hooking his fingers in, oh god,_ is Tucker’s chant, his eyes alternating between the grey eyes and freckles to the even more freckly hands and now present dick.

Tucker swallows deeply. “Behind you on the dresser, oh god, behind you.”

 _No, don’t turn,_ is too late to think as he catches the best view – in his opinion – of David’s arse. The saliva is generating madly in his mouth. When Wash turns around and inspects Tucker, he arches a perfect blond eyebrow and drags Tucker up to the top of the bed.

“Are you fine with this?” he asks, dragging his fingers down Tucker’s side and ghosting kisses from his shoulders, his chest. He pays particular attention to Tucker’s nipples, licking and blowing, then continuing down and sitting up slightly at his groin.

“Oh my god,” he says, like a broken record. “Dude, fuck me, fuck me _holy shit.”_

“You’re overreacting a bit,” Wash murmurs with a smirk.

“No, _I’ve_ been waiting fucking forever for this sexual tension to be resolved.”

“Shut up, Lavernius. It’s your fault you didn’t tell me you actually wanted a date!” Wash sits up, pursing his lips, completely ready to argue and fuck.

“Wash, seriously, if you don’t hurry up I’m sticking my dick up _your_ ass---” His statement ends before he can finish it, feeling Wash’s tentative fingers stretching him. He pays little mind until he feels he’s ready (best not to think of it, he reasons).

Then he’s _full_ of _Wash,_ who’s slow and steady and _loving_ that Tucker is confused, because a minute ago he was stripping and dominant, and now he’s _this._ Keeping eye contact, caressing his shoulders, kisses to his nose and cheeks and forehead. It’s all a frenzy of Washington, of Washington, noticing more (impossible) freckles, his prominent collar bones sharp shoulders. For Tucker, right now, it’s not just fucking. The sensuality of it almost engulfs him, thinking this is the dude who has a ritual every Saturday evening to watch a soap opera; this is the dude who has two cats that he speaks adoringly of; this is the dude that’s more likely to dress him than undress him.

Then again, he does know how to unbutton quickly, so he’ll give him credit there. Tucker could believe, in masturbatory fantasies, that Wash was a sexual creature like this. The reality is a whole lot damn better, in his opinion, as he moves between animalistic thrusting and a steady loving pace.

Wash and Tucker come together, after steady moans and heavy breathing and a small bead of sweat dripping from Wash’s head to Tucker’s, come filling in between them.

\---

Tucker wakes with a fright. His heart is pounding, waking up in another reality – no, this reality, the proper one.

Wash is still in prison.

He just dreamt of a whole _other_ world, where he and Wash weren’t in a war, where Donut was free with Doc, where Church was human and his best friend. Where he and Wash had sex. His heart aches.

He will fight for Wash.

“Are you okay, dude?” Grif asks him the next morning, in the mess hall. He looks relatively preoccupied, almost concerned but attempting to avoid so.

“Weirdest fucking dream, dude,” he responds, grasping his forehead.

“Dream? Huh, too bad.” Simmons patters up behind him.

“We gotta start training soon, so hurry up, fatass A and lazyass B,” Simmons commands, donning his most intimidating voice.

“Tucker’s a bit fucked up, Simmons.” Grif gestures to Tucker’s plainly nervous form.

“Dude, when I said I had a _fucking_ dream, I meant it.” He can’t even choke out _bow chicka bow wow._ He just fucking envisioned a world where things… things were okay. Locus didn’t hurt Wash and Wash was still with them, and they had dinners at restaurants together and walked home and laughed because everything was okay.

“Quit fucking talking about my sister!” Grif yells, pointing at him with a breadstick.

“Wasn’t her.” Where there were two cats, and Wash spoke of them fondly, almost lovingly, then treated Tucker the same way and taught him _love_ and _sex_ weren’t mutually exclusive.

“Tex? Carolina?” He can vaguely hear Simmons, but all he’s thinking of is Church – breathing, annoyed, with Caboose, black hair and a black stubble with pale skin.

“What’s going on?” Washington, grinning goofily, grey eyes and freckles and hands and stripping and dressing him and then undressing him.

“Oh no.” Wash, locked away somewhere, with 5 days to train and practise to save him.

“We’re fucking go to practice as soon as you’ve finished,” Tucker begins abruptly, invigorated by his thoughts and dream. “We are fucking _training;_ your lieutenants are going to be the best of the best. We’re fucking saving Wash.”

Grif and Simmons look at him from the opposite side of the table, their suspicions now confirmed.

“And when I take him back to Earth, I’m fucking buying him two cats and marrying him.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i hate endings that go with 'lol it was a dream' but it suits how the story goes trust me


	2. Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was reality, he guesses. As good as it got. Tucker holds on. It's all he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup  
> read it and enjoy. Comment if you like. I know I do! ٩꒰ಂ❛ ▿❛ಂ꒱۶♡

All right, so he doesn’t exactly sail in like Link or something. He might have a pretty fuckin’ cool sword, but he’s no Hero of Time or whatever the fuck that shit was. God knows how many games there are now. But anyway. The objective: Getting Wash Back in One Piece.

They run into Felix. He’s a bit confused about the whole thing and Wash is not altogether pleased with the current situation. Caboose just wants Church back and to know why he wasn’t rescued, too.

Where they are now isn’t exactly safe. It’s between the Rebels and the Federal Army, kind of where they are metaphorically. Wash goes on about ‘moral greyness’ and ‘we can’t trust anybody’ and it’s the same old shit, really, and Tucker is _happy._

Well. He certainly hasn’t said that in a while. All concerns about _leadership_ and having to deal with Kimball talking about ‘responsibility’ are fucking gone. Wash is here to fix it.

He doesn’t mind any of the implications behind that. (He’d add a ‘baby’ on the end of it. He imagines Wash saying it. It sounds wrong and he doesn’t want to be right).

But even the joy at finding their teammates is not enough to quell the urgency of the situation. They have no way of getting off Chorus at this stage, and Felix forces the Reds and Blues to take full authority of where they’re stuck stranded. Locus is playing them as much as Felix, though. To them, it’s not the civil war. It’s an endless rivalry that Wash says he recognises. Apparently, it didn’t end well.

Wash is on edge. Sarge is delirious with getting Grif back before ‘them no goods could kill him before I could. It’s my job. They ain’t takin’ away my number one duty.’ Simmons is glad they aren’t dead. Caboose is still yearning for somebody who can’t be with them.

Tucker… Tucker is, currently, watching Wash intently. He’s on lookout, able to sleep but refusing to do so. ‘Not while Felix is around.’

Every now and then Tucker will remark, inwardly, at how they’d survived. But he also wonders how Wash – of all the Freelancers he’d met and heard – had made it this far. Tex was supposedly at the top and Carolina was the best (or so was jammed down his throat) and York was not far behind. Wash had sometimes dropped points about Agent York and Agent North Dakota. They were friends. They died.

He’d reply, my friend died too. ‘He wasn’t alive.’ Wash walks away.

The area they’re stuck in has the arid temperature as the desert he was trapped in a while ago with the aliens and C.T. Or the C.T. he met, apparently different from the one Wash knew. She was nice. Died. They all died except for him and Carolina. Tucker feels like he’s choking when Wash is open. He’s not sure of the right words to say, or the proper way to deal with it. So he’s just there. Nods his head. Tucker was lucky to not have to deal with Wash once he was captured.

He hated it anyway.

The dust luckily doesn’t get in his armour, already knowing the exact way to stand when the wind blows to prevent this. Or it was just Wash humouring him after hearing the escapades back then, encouraging Tucker ‘you knew what you were doing, definitely.’ Fucker.

Tucker should be angry at the way Wash commanded for Freckles to shake. Seeing Wash, walking around like he was a goddamn leader, though, kind of makes him glad to appreciate this. He’s learnt things are very fleeting. Fleeting. It’s a word Tucker has always known and never accepted. ‘Things never go that quick except for me in the morning.’ He has learnt they do. Escape through his fingers like sand.

So here Wash is, all doom and gloom aside, and he’s fucking _pleased._ He was right when he said Wash will know what to do. He’s smug about it, too. (Both of them). Grif just moans when the fact is brought up.

“Private Tucker, you should be asleep.” Shit, Wash noticed him. Okay, so Tucker has become a _bit_ stalker-ish. No, that’s not it – he’s _appreciating_ Wash being around again. That’s it. Sounds less like Church. Hiding behind a rock has always been his thing, anyway.

“Nah, dude, Grif snores,” Tucker replies back easily, stretching up from his crouch. The night sky here is not as black as back on Earth, as he remembers. It’s a navy blue, with stars so bright and big, the nearby planet imposing compared to the moon back home. The lights in the sky are varying shades; some of them, Tucker’s sure, aren’t stars but comets and distant, distant planets and meteors. Tucker guesses they don’t need fireworks here. New Year’s must be a celebration of the celestial beauty before him. It has been a long time since he’s seen nightfall. Blood Gulch, where the sun never sets.

“I’m sure you’ve dealt with that long enough.” Wash turns only briefly to size Tucker up, before returning to his watch.

“Separate rooms, thank fuck. Simmons was still stuck with him. I think he had more problems with the hygiene of Grif than speaking to his female soldiers.” Tucker barks out a laugh. “You should’ve seen us.”

“Speaking of, how did you cope? I’m sure it wasn’t easy with… Caboose,” Wash says, stiltedly. His posture is stiff, like he’s not sure what the boundaries are between the two of them anymore. Like Tucker’s going to outright reject him.

“I had the most fucking annoying lieutenant. I won’t mention – I won’t mention the other privates,” Tucker begins. “Bow chicka bow wow!”

“Really. You’ve matured so much. I’m glad of how far you’ve made it.” Wash looks at him again through his visor, standing beside him. There’s a smirk under there for sure.

“Dude, it’s our charm. Didn’t Church tell you that?”

“He did, actually. Within the first – oh, five minutes of us meeting – he’d edged in at least _several_ cusses at Caboose. I think I was very, very worried how I was going to take down the Meta with a soldier that can’t even shoot.” Wash lets out a breathy laugh.

“Grif’s lieutenant was as much of an asshole as him. His other private was basically Simmons. Simmons’ squad was all girls and you can tell where _that_ went.” Tucker stops to lean back against the cliff. They’re fortunate with the valley they’ve run into.

“What about Caboose?” Wash’s tone is the soft, firm one that Tucker has become comfortable with. It’s one Caboose listens to, at least.

“They made him the heavy machine specialist to begin with.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah. Kimball quickly changed _that_ designation, I can tell you.” Tucker is amused at the memory. Also partially left traumatised, because he’ll be damned if Caboose had tried to take out the _other_ Blue leader then. “He had a lieutenant that blindly believed in him. It was like Caboose and Church squared, only this Smith dude encouraged him. Worst combination.”

“Ever,” Wash mused. “Who was Kimball?”

“Leader of the Rebel Army,” Tucker declares. “The fourth one. They are assassinated _really_ quickly, as it goes. No way did I want to stick around that. She was okay, though. Tried to make us soldiers.”

“Was she as successful as me?”

“No, dude, she didn’t _shoot me in the ass to make me do an obstacle course._ ” Tucker isn’t bitter. Really.

“It made you do it, didn’t it?”

The aqua soldier huffs in response and his shoulder makes a small rock fall. He’s dragged back to that day – eons ago, it feels now – when shit went down at the crash site.

“Why did you do it?” he asks.

“Spur of the moment, I guess.” Wash’s voice is full of composition but the opposite man is certain there’s sarcasm.

“No, why you _did it._ Why you let yourself get captured. Why you didn’t fucking _run,”_ Tucker says shakily, looking down at his hands. Remembering when Felix was there when he awoke, telling him ‘that’s war.’ War is bullshit.

Wash doesn’t reply for minutes. Scans the area around them, looking out for any minute whispers in his vision. Tucker swallows at least twice.

“I said I’d protect you.” All the answer Tucker gets then. Seconds tick by and Tucker notes, from his HUD, it’s been at _least_ a minute and thirty two seconds since he’s asked the question. Okay, so maybe he started getting obsessive about time because of Wash’s fastidiousness and meticulous means of organisation.

“And I thought…” Wash tries to start, but stops and sighs. “I thought that you’d have a better chance with the Rebels. I’m your leader, Tucker, and I knew there was a reason _you_ were the one in that desert. Why _you_ managed to stab the Meta. Why _you_ held your own against the Tex bots. Don’t take this as a compliment, by any means. You’re a terrible soldier. But…”

“You’re pausing a lot.”

“I’m trying to _say_ this the right way, Tucker,” he responds gruffly. “Just let me – get this right. Please.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I trusted you. I knew that you could lead the others when I couldn’t. And if I was on the other side – they’d focus on me, whatever that happened – I believed that you could get yourself to safety. If I at least had the first step in it.”

“That’s what you _thought._ I was fucking shit with strategising and making other people get things right. Grif took ‘military training’ to mean _invading the mess hall._ Simmons couldn’t even fucking talk to his subordinates! We didn’t fucking work. And that’s why I gave up doing that. I had to get you back, Wash. We had five days. Shit, I had to fucking _get you back!”_

“You assumed I was going to be dead, didn’t you? You thought you’d walk in and find a corpse.”

“Yeah. I did. And I didn’t want to. They – they all fucking talked like we’d bust in to find you beat to death. I couldn’t stand that, Wash. I couldn’t. They never said it, though. But I felt it.”

Tucker wants to take off his helmet, but he knows it’s unsafe to. Wash would engage in a lecture of his own.

“And shit – shit, Wash, I _need_ you.” Tucker lets out a long breath. The words hang in the air, pegged out like wet washing, too heavy to dance in the light breeze.

He clears his throat. “I had this dream. A little bit before we left to come find you.”

Wash’s visor is still staring at Tucker, so he goes on. “We were civilians. Donut had a party and I forced you take me as a date. Sarge and Church placed a bet on us. Church was human, by the way. Still an asshole.”

No movement. “Then you took me out to dinner and we fucked. You were a gentleman, dude. Walked me home, even.”

Wash sputters and Tucker is sure – yup, 100% sure – he’s blushing. Well. Tucker likes that.

“So then, I wake up with the _worst_ boner in forever. And by then I’m doubting my complete heterosexuality. Or, well, I’ve been doing that a _long_ time, since like, the first time you did squats with me.”

“Tucker –”

“Shut up, dude! Let me finish my story! Anyway, so, I fix that issue. Grif badgers me like he always fucking does and Simmons acts like a superior when Jensen isn’t around. Hey, what’s your favourite breed of cat?”

“I like – I used to like rescuing cats. I guess. When I was a kid.” Wash sounds thrown off. Good.

“Sweet. When we get out of this mess, let’s buy a house. Get hitched and have like, seventy cats. Whatever makes you happy.”

“Is this some elaborate joke?”

“Fuck no, you think Doctor Love messes around? I’ve got my 401k or whatever my retirement plan is and we’ll forge your identity. I’m thinking a little house in like the middle of _nowhere._ With another house just beside it. Painted red. Simmons and Grif and Sarge can live there. It’ll be like old times, except Caboose will have somewhere to not set shit on fire.”

“Really. That’s your plan.” It’s a statement. One of puzzlement and _how the fuck._

“Yeah. Got a problem with it? We can fuck every day, I swear. I’ll be sixty with an erect dick.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“I like the sound of it. At least there’ll be no guns around,” Wash says, sounding satisfied and faintly – Tucker detects, he’s good at this now – happy.

“Sweet.”

“Can we be near a skate park?”

“Yeah. Why the fuck not? We'll build one.”

“I’m not good with this, just so you know. I’ve been through a corrupt military program and haven’t had much time otherwise.”

“We’ll wing it.” Tucker grins at Wash, even though he can’t see it. The sentiment is all the same.

\--

“Hey Tucker!” Simmons yells from the house beside them. “Where’s Lopez?”

“I don’t fucking know!” Tucker replies from his back yard, two cats circling him and the hose in his hand. The sun is beginning to pick up heat in the spring, and the flowers Wash planted are going to bloom in a few months. Simmons has his freckly neck stuck out a window.

“Well, let me know when you do!”

“Sure! Asshole!”

“Blue sucks!”

“Reds all have small dicks!”

“What are you doing?” Wash comes out carrying bags of compost from the shed.

“Simmons is being an asshole because he can’t find Lopez and decided to yell at me from the Reds’ window. What’s new?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Wash heavily sighs. “Turn down the pressure on the water!”

Tucker groans and complies, muttering about _stupid fucking David_ and _same as fucking Agent Washington._

“You’re the one that married me.”

“You’re the one that planted a fucking garden and didn’t tell me how to _care for it_ and _maintain it._ ”

“I left the booklet in the kitchen! Beside the coffeepot. Where you are _every morning.”_ Wash drops the heavy bags and okay – Tucker unashamedly checks out the dude’s biceps. He can. They’re _married._

“Yeah, and it looked pretty boring. Why would I read that?”

Wash purses the bridge of his nose. Very freckly and angular nose that Tucker happens to like. “I don’t know, thought you’d get the hint.”

“I take a while to get hints about gardening. In particular ways to ‘cultivate plants and nourish them’. Seriously, where’d you fucking pick it up?”

“Doc sent it to me.”

“They have our address?”

“Um,” Wash says. “No. Postbox. Only a rough idea.”

“They’ll find us and stay for six weeks, you know,” Tucker turns back to the plants he’s watering. Supposedly they’re azaleas and hydrangeas. There’s catnip in there.

“Well, it’s better than a lot of things.”

“And yet they keep coming back.”

“You have a point.” Wash sighs and walks over to beside Tucker. “I never thought I’d get this. You know, I thought it was always going to be some absent idea. I didn’t know you meant it. I didn’t think I’d ever get out alive. I intended to die much sooner.”

“You take some time to trust people, don’t you? Well, I basically made a promise. Besides, this is a pretty sweet deal.”

“I’m sure it’s your idea of bliss. I have to say,” he puts his right arm around Tucker’s waist. “It’s very, very close to mine.”

“There should’ve been small print on the wedding papers. _‘Has a tendency to get mushy’_. Never expected it.”

“Hey dickheads!” Grif calls from the window. “Why the fuck are Doc and Donut here?”

“Oh, son of a bitch,” Tucker mutters.

“Those fucking –”

Tucker reaches up to grab Wash’s jaw and kisses him roughly. Always like it’s the last time. Tucker used to never know when he’d be shot, or maimed, or stabbed or left bleeding. He’s pretty fucking glad his worst situation now is an ex-pink soldier and an ex-medic.

Doesn’t mind Wash being called David Tucker.

What can he say, he’s driven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i loved writing this so much you have no idea  
> all my love to my dear readers you are All Very Wonderful
> 
> and Yin ٩꒰ ˘ ³˘꒱۶~♡


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